


may we meet again

by heaveninbusan



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The 100 (TV) Fusion, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heaveninbusan/pseuds/heaveninbusan
Summary: “In peace, may you leave this shore. In love, may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey to the ground. May we meet again.”“We always do.”
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20
Collections: MINSUNG BINGO: Round Two





	may we meet again

**Author's Note:**

> another minsung bingo entry :)
> 
> fills: post-apocalyptic and reincarnation 
> 
> also apologies if you've never watched the 100 and don't know what's going on. i love and hate this show and i've been upset since 3x07. it's been a hundred years and i'm still sad.

Minho has lost Jisung a thousand times, and he will lose him a thousand more. He doesn’t know it yet, but this is the fate written for him by the stars, and no matter where, or when, he is, the stars are never wrong.

The battle that had been raging for hours is quiet outside Jisung’s windows now. It’s a truce, but a wavering one, one Minho knows he’ll have to go back on, but not yet. He slides his blade back into the holster on his thigh.

“Are you leaving now?” Jisung asks from his place across the chambers, where he leans on the stone bannister, staring out the open, uncovered windows. From this high in the Tower of Polis, everything looks miniature. Everything Jisung looks at belongs to _him_ now.

But he won’t look at Minho. Instead he stares down at his hands, encrusted with rings shaped like delicate silver bones. He’s dressed for a ceremony, red cape trailing to the floor.

“We have to get behind the blockade before dawn.”

Jisung nods, looks away again. 

Minho searches Jisung’s face. He’s seen Jisung command armies and knit together entire enemy nations. He’s seen Jisung cleave his opponents in half, take down men twice his size. He’s seen Jisung order those same men to their knees with only his words. But he’s never seen Jisung like _this._

He has never seen Jisung so open and vulnerable and unsure, and _that_ is what makes him take one small step closer to Jisung, boot shuffling over the cold stone floor.

“You know that I have to betray you,” Minho says, slowly, approaching a wounded animal.

“You have to do what’s right for your people, just like I have to do for mine. It’s why—” He cuts himself off.

“I have to cross a line, and I don’t know if we’ll ever be on the same side of it again.”

This time it’s Jisung who takes a step forward. He reaches a hand up to brush the backs of his knuckles along Minho’s jaw. “Maybe one day there won’t be lines anymore.” 

They’re in Jisung’s chambers, rooms only ever seen by Commanders and those they trust with their lives. Minho doesn’t understand how he’s been allowed in here, how he’s been allowed to touch Jisung this intimately, how, after everything they’ve done to one another, he’s allowed to be this close. The candles in the chandelier and sconces mounted to the walls paint Jisung golden; he looks like a deity. He looks like the Commander of Blood. Minho drinks it all in, one last look before he has to go. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be back.

Jisung takes a step back, holding out his hand. Minho takes it, clamping onto his wrist. Jisung’s grip is strong and sure. “May we meet again,” he says.

Minho can feel his chest caving in, the ache in his throat, the sting in his eyes. He wants to pound his fists to the stone walls of Polis and tear the entire thing down. It’s not _fair._ None of this is fair and there’s nothing he can do to change it. He stares into Jisung’s eyes, and there’s a silent understanding there. Jisung feels it too, feels the rage beating against the inside of his chest. There is probably no one else on this shattered, empty earth who understands quite like Jisung does.

Minho pulls him closer.

Jisung’s hands find Minho’s neck, and Minho’s lips find Jisung’s. After weeks of brutal treks across Ice Nation territories, weeks of sleeping on cold, hard ground made of stone and roots, weeks of fighting just to stay alive, Jisung is the softest thing that Minho has ever touched. He’s warm, like coming home, and Minho wants to know _why—_ why he was given _this_ life, destined to live on the opposite side of the line.

He reaches up for the buckles holding Jisung’s leather armor in place. It falls to the ground, along with the cape, and he’s left in his tunic, leather leggings, and his crown. He looks like a prince from a storybook, not the commander of twelve clans.

As if he can read Minho’s thoughts, Jisung takes the crown off now, tossing it to a pile of furs by the fireplace. It lands with a quiet thump, tossed like so much trash, like it isn’t the one thing—other than the Flame—that holds Jisung’s power together. They have come together as enemies, as two leaders of opposing nations, as advisors, as prisoners, as allies. Tonight, they are here as just men, just Jisung and Minho.

It is easy—too easy—to fall into Jisung. To get lost in the map of scars all over his body, to trace the outlines of Nightblood-black tattoos that line his spine. Minho has had partners before—before he came down to Earth, before the Ark fell, before he met Jisung. But nothing has ever felt like this, like every time their skin touches it’s another tiny explosion. Stories of the Fire have been passed down through the generations on the Ark but he thinks those fires pale in comparison to the one that rages just below Jisung’s skin, the one that ignites and burns down everything around them when their bodies fuse together.

They don’t say anything for a while, Minho clinging to Jisung’s prone form, wrapped in a bed of furs and soft down. The sun, burning bright and high in the sky when they first arrived at Jisung's chambers, now hangs low and red, slanting through the lattice covering the window over the bed. It sets the room aflame. Time is slipping through Minho’s fingers faster than he’d ever allow if he called the shots. 

But he’s quickly learning that no matter what title he bears, no matter that his people look to him for guidance, he has very little control over anything. Least of all how long he stays in this bed, wrapped around Jisung.

“If Hyunjin and I are going to make it behind the blockade on time…”

Jisung shifts, turning over to face Minho. “I know.” On his face are written all the words he wants to say, but he can’t.

“I have to go.”

“I know.”

“I wish there was—“

“There’s not,” Jisung says, sitting up. The fur blanket falls to his waist, exposing tattooed, scarred, soft skin. “You have to get to Changbin. You have to get out of Polis or they’ll kill you, Minho.”

Minho sighs. He _knows._ He was there for it all, for the demands that his people be exiled from Trikru territory, the call for his _own_ head on the line if they didn’t get out. And he knows what they’re going to do to Changbin if he doesn’t leave. But he wishes that there was another way, any other way. 

Tearing himself out of Jisung’s arms and out of his bed is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. Harder than knitting twelve factions of enemies together in a single cause. Harder than getting his own people down to Earth and off the Ark. But he does it, because Chan and Hyunjin and _Changbin_ are depending on him. They dress in silence and Minho can still feel the burns on his skin where Jisung touched him. 

The door to the chamber creaks open, and Jisung immediately stands tall, his face already the mask of a Commander. “I told you to _leave us_ ,” he shouts before he can even see who it is. 

The Flamekeeper shuts the door behind himself, coarse black robes billowing behind him. He doesn’t even look at Minho, but Minho doesn’t care—he knows well what the Flamekeeper thinks of him, of his relationship with Jisung. But something is off about the old man, something Minho can’t quite place. Minho feels frozen where he stands, watching the Flamekeeper’s hand rise into the air. 

“No!”

There’s a _bang_ and something hard hits him on the side, shoving him bodily into the wall. His elbow cracks against the stone and the bitter, coppery taste of blood fills his mouth. There’s another, sickening thud behind him and the Flamekeeper is screaming Jisung’s name.

It takes agonizingly long seconds for Minho to piece it all together: the gun falling to the floor next to the Flamekeeper; the wet, gasping sounds coming from Jisung, leaned against the bed frame behind him. A dark patch forms on the white cotton of Jisung’s shirt, coating his fingers where he clenches at the wound. It’s directly above his heart. His blood is black. 

Minho doesn’t think about what he does next. He rushes the Flamekeeper, throwing him to the ground, dipping low to scoop the gun up into his hands. He pulls the safety, finger on the trigger, aiming at the old man sprawled on the floor in front of him.

“Minho, no! Stop!” It sounds like it takes Jisung all of his strength to get the words out. 

When he looks back at Jisung, Jisung is already pale. He clenches his shirt in his fist, his breathing is labored, but his face is soft. Like he’s hurting, but not for himself. For Minho. Minho falls to his knees beside Jisung, pressing his hand over the wound like he’d been taught to do so many times, in so many classes while he still lived on the Ark. He has to staunch the bleeding. What had his mother told him? If only they were there, at her infirmary right now.

“Get him on the bed.” It’s the Flamekeeper, standing over them. 

Minho doesn’t hesitate, sliding his arms under Jisung’s bent knees, under his waist, and lifting him. He rests him gently on top of the golden fur pelt, Jisung’s head cradled by the pillows. The Flamekeeper pushes himself between Minho and Jisung, a red leather pouch clutched in his hands. He speaks to Jisung in a tongue Minho doesn’t understand. 

“Don’t be afraid, Minho,” Jisung says to him a moment later. The Flamekeeper dips his fingers in Jisung’s black blood, pressing the liquid to his own forehead, anointing himself.

“I’m not afraid, we’re going to fix this.” 

A deep, rattling cough rips through Jisung’s body and suddenly he looks so, so small. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“I refuse to let you die _here._ Not today Jisung, not here.”

“Stop, stop.” Jisung’s voice calls to him from miles away, resting his hand on Minho’s, brushing his fingertips lightly over Minho’s knuckles. “Stop.”

A tear drips down from Minho’s chin, lands where their fingers connect. Horrible understanding settles down upon him as the pool of blood grows wider, deeper. 

“After everything we fought for.”

“You’re still fighting. My fight is over.”

Great, heaving sobs wrack through Minho’s chest, pulling him further down toward Jisung. He clutches Jisung in his arms, a mantra of “no” on his lips. 

“There is so much left for you to do, Minho.” Jisung’s hands are ice cold now, his voice breathy. “My soul lives on in the Flame. The next Commander will protect you.” 

The doors to the chambers slam open again, and every muscle in Minho’s body tightens, ready to strike. Heavy footsteps pound across the stone. 

“Minho we have to go!” It’s Chan, out of breath, body loaded with armor and a bow strapped to his back. He opens his mouth, starts to say more, and his voice is stuck in his throat. There’s a low whistle behind Minho, and he knows the sound well. Hyunjin. 

But Minho can’t look away from Jisung. He can’t wrap his head around how quickly he went from being life itself to fading, pale and weak on the bed where they’d just made love. Minho’s stomach turns and Jisung’s fingers tighten around his. 

“My fight is over,” he repeats. “Go.” 

Minho shakes his head, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “No, I can’t.”

“You have to. Your people need you.”

“ _You_ need me.” 

Minho expects Jisung to fight him again, to insist that the Flamekeeper can care for him. But instead, Minho follows his eyes to where he looks out the window at the darkening sky. 

“I remember the day your ship fell to earth,” Jisung says and somehow he has an impossible, wistful smile on his face. “I thought it was a star. I wished on it. I didn’t know it would bring me so much more.” 

He squeezes Minho’s hands again, pulling with the strength of a child until Minho lowers himself and presses a salty, tear stained kiss to Jisung’s lips. 

“Say goodbye now,” Jisung whispers into the secret, sacred space between them. 

“In peace, may you leave this shore. In love, may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey to the ground. May we meet again.”

“We always do.” 

Minho closes his eyes, kisses Jisung again, and then he sees it. He sees how they always _do_ find each other. He sees them in the halls of what he recognizes as a school from Before, before the Fire. He sees them as old men on a beach walking hand in hand. As young, fierce men strapped in armor, carrying shields, reaching out for one another across the dark. He sees them on a ship, the sea a mirror to the sky, surrounded by a million stars. 

“May we meet again,” Jisung whispers. And then he’s gone. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [twt](http://twitter.com/linosonlyfans) to cry about jisung w me


End file.
